Sewn Shut
by Celestially
Summary: “Maybe it was the pills starting to help him, but he was ashamed that he was feeding her the same crap about feeling empty and monotone, and dreams about being sewn into oversized clothing.” HouseWilson, spoilers up to and including 97 Seconds.


**Sewn Shut**

Wilson never had nightmares in the traditional sense. Even as a child, he never dreamt of the monsters under the bed or in the closet coming to get him, or of falling from burning buildings or planes, or of being pushed under the water and unable to break the surface. Instead, he dreamt of things that could have happened, but didn't. Hadn't. Conversations that might as well have happened, judging by the guilt he always felt when he woke up. Things that _could_ happen, though they never would. Vague flurries of images from the day, assembled into incomprehensible plotlines that bordered on disturbing, but still lucid enough to make sense.

Wilson didn't know what it was like to wake with a start, cold sweat drenching his body as he waited for his heart to stop pounding. His dreams simply left him upset, confused, frustrated, and other emotions of "moderate" distress. Just enough to be a concern, never enough to be a problem.

Worse yet, they had increased in frequency over the years. Wilson had stopped finding solace in sleep a long time ago.

The dreams and associated feelings had come up before she had diagnosed the dysthymia, but about a month later he found himself telling Andrea again as if it were the first time. Ironically, Wilson never thought of his dream issues as a symptom of a mood disorder as much as they were a part of his being. But that was how he presented them, because he didn't particularly feel like talking about anything new.

Andrea, of course, nodded and sympathetically asked: "And what is it, exactly, about the dreams that bothers you?"

Wilson shrugged. "They don't bother me _enough_, that's the problem," he answered. "I'm tired of being kind-of-blue. I either want to be upset or not." He sighed. "I kind of wish I were _actually_ depressed, instead of just dysthymic."

"Never thought I would ever hear anyone say that," Andrea mused. "Dysthymia is milder, but episodes last much longer than with depression. Good thing and a bad thing. You're very functional, at least."

"I also kind of wish that I weren't so good at cheering up whenever something good happens," he bitterly added. "It makes me feel like there's nothing wrong, even though I know there is."

"Atypical features," she said. "But you already knew that."

"I feel like one of the Opportunists in Dante's _Inferno_. It's punishment without really being punishment. And you're not allowed to notice or talk about them, either, so everything goes unnoticed. They end up wishing that they were in Hell itself instead of just wandering the outskirts." Wilson laughed. "Nobody knows about it. Me."

"You could tell them?" Andrea offered.

"They wouldn't believe me. _Or_ respect me." He sighed. "It would be great if this just went away, to be honest. I feel like it's been forever."

"That's why we're here, James. It helps to talk." She smiled, and in her most diplomatic voice, added: "The pills will help, too."

Mercifully, she didn't tell him anything about the fact that he _wasn't_ really talking. All he was doing was repeating the same things over and over again in order to not say anything else. Wilson wondered why he came every week, if it wasn't to talk about the things he was bottling up. To get pills, he wryly noted, and wondered if House felt the same way.

"There's this one dream I keep on having," he said, figuring that he needed to say something new and this one would have to do. "I've had it since I was a child."

"Oh?" Andrea asked. "Would you like to talk about it?"

Why else would he have brought it up? "It's the closest thing to a drowning dream I ever had," he explained. "I'm in this sweater, only it's a lot bigger than I am. It looks a bit like the sweaters my mom used to make me." He leaned back, swallowing, then continued: "And I'm want to grab onto the wool—sometimes it's cashmere—and climb out of the sweater, but I know it'll hurt me to touch the sides. Meanwhile, my mother is at the top, sewing the neck hole shut with an oversized needle. Weird thing is, it never really looks like my mom—I can't tell you what the person looks like, because I can never remember, and it's never anyone I know. It's just supposed to be my mom."

"Or a representation of your mother," Andrea contributed.

"Then the sweater is sewn shut and I'm trapped inside. It's never dark, and it's actually kind of warm, but I feel completely trapped inside of the fabric and I can't escape. And then I wake up." Wilson paused, looking at the various wall decorations in Andrea's office. "That's it. It's always the same thing."

"Interesting," Andrea mused. She then proceeded to dissect his mother's role in the dream, possibly in a very Freudian way, although he wasn't really sure because he wasn't paying attention. Wilson patted himself on the back for failing to mention that the wool or cashmere sweater had sometimes transformed into a sky blue, slightly creased dress shirt, and that his mother's smooth hands were sometimes replaced by larger, more worn, but no less elegant ones. Pianist's hands.

He wasn't making any progress by hiding it. Instead, he tried not to ask himself if popping another pill would help him get through the session, or if House felt the same way.

* * *

"So House thinks we should have sex," Wilson suddenly said over coffee in the hospital cafeteria, tucked away in a corner booth.

Cuddy blinked back at him through the steam of her latte. "What, so he can watch?"

"He's concocted this crazy idea based on what Bonnie told him when he faked condo-shopping to talk to her. I spoke to her a little while ago and warned her that he wasn't actually interested in shopping for condos. She didn't believe me," he explained. "But, _apparently_ if we have sex _now_, before you fall head-over-heels in love with me as House seems to believe will happen, you won't become Mrs. Wilson Number Four."

"So you _don't_ want me to?" Cuddy asked, leaning forward. It wasn't a necessarily seductive move—at least, he didn't think so—as much as it was an expression of curiosity. It was like she was trying to get closer to him, as if closing the space between them would make his emotional shield drop, or seeing him from a different angle would reveal the answers tattooed onto his skin. "I mean, I wasn't really sure, at times," she continued, looking down at her drink. "You said no, but the adorable flustered thing you were doing was telling me yes."

"So I got a little flustered." He shrugged. "It's not every day that you accidentally take your boss to an exhibition of erotic art. I got nervous."

"Did you want to feel something? Was that it?" Cuddy bit her lip. "Did you want to feel something that wasn't there? Because you shouldn't force yourself to. Not with me, especially. We've known each other for too long." When he didn't answer, she added: "Just tell me the truth. I won't get offended."

He sighed and took a sip of his coffee. "Lisa, you're beautiful."

"...thank you."

"My original intent was just to treat you to a nice play. Help you relax. What's a night out between friends every once in a while, right?" He hadn't really thought of her as a friend before as much as a long-time coworker and occasional co-conspirer, but he wasn't about to say that. "Maybe I also wanted to see if I was attracted to you, but that wasn't the point."

"And I'm guessing you aren't?" she asked plainly. She _didn't_ sound offended, thankfully, only curious.

"...I'm surprised I'm not, and I really don't know why." He smiled nervously. "I'm not sure what the answer's supposed to be."

"James..." Cuddy reached out and grabbed his hand. When had they switched into first names? Right, he had started it earlier. "Is there anything you need to talk about? Forget that I'm your boss." Kind of hard when she was reminding him. "Think of me as a friend."

"I still don't know whether or not it's appropriate to say anything," Wilson explained casually, opting to put one more packet of sugar in his coffee.

"Because I'm your boss?" She shook her head. "Please, I just want to understand—"

"I have dysthymia with atypical features," Wilson interrupted. The suddenness of his admission would have taken by surprise if it hadn't been so cathartic. "I've been seeing a therapist for the past few months."

"God, I didn't know," Cuddy breathed, squeezing his hand tightly. It was probably meant to be reassurance that she was there for him. Or maybe it was for her sake, to confirm that she was actually talking to Wilson and not hallucinating. "You're just so ... functional."

"I just hope you don't decide that I'm unfit as a department head." He smiled lightly.

"Well, if you think about the definition of functional, then I'd say you're fine where you are." Cuddy's face was supportive, albeit oddly grave. "As your boss, I'm not concerned, but as your friend I am." She squeezed his hand again then moved back to her coffee cup, holding it for comfort. "Are you on anything?"

"Prozac. I've been on it for a few weeks. I'm starting to feel better, but I'm _really_ waiting for the moment that I actually get upset."

"Why would you want that?" Cuddy asked. "Isn't that a little ... counterproductive?"

"It's weird, but I ... I haven't gotten upset about something in a while. And I want actual sadness to come back. I'm tired of the middle." Wilson's face tightened into a grim expression. "There are so many things that I should have freaked out about, but instead I've been so calm that I don't know how I really feel about anything anymore."

Cuddy looked down pensively then locked eyes with Wilson. "How much of this is actually about House?"

"A—I..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I try not to talk about it."

"Clearly that's helping," Cuddy wryly noted. "Listen, you obviously have a lot of thinking to do. Is your therapist helping much?"

"She gives me meds, if that's what you mean."

Cuddy smirked sadly. "You sound like House."

"Yeah, I thought so too." Wilson took another sip of coffee. "I don't usually like to talk about myself, so I try to avoid it. I've learned my lesson from the very few times I've tried to open up."

"We're talking about _House_, though." She shook her head. "God, you two are way more alike than you seem. Just where he's an asshole who makes a point of not talking about his issues, you hide them because you don't have to talk about anything if there's nothing to talk about in the first place. For all the people who like you and would like to get to know you, you're just as dependent on House as he is on you." She snorted. "And they wonder why you two are friends."

"See, I thought it was our witty banter."

"I worry about you," Cuddy admitted, leaning forward in her seat. "You managed to hide this from us for God knows how long."

"It's not hurting me to hold it in," Wilson offered.

"But it's not helping either."

Wilson looked at Cuddy and sighed. "Does it matter?" He frowned as Foreman approached them. "Yes, Dr. Foreman?" he asked preemptively, partially for Cuddy's sake so she wouldn't say anything she didn't want Foreman to overhear.

"Dr. Wilson, I need ... your help," Foreman admitted, looking down solemnly.

"Uh, sure. Is this a consult or House-related?" Wilson glanced at Cuddy, who was eyeing Foreman with concern.

"It..." Foreman looked at Cuddy, then nervously glanced back at Wilson. "Can we talk about this in private?" he asked, a hint of embarrassment in his voice.

Wilson was pretty sure he knew what Foreman wanted to talk about, but decided to confirm it anyway: "How's the patient doing?"

Foreman's face fell.

Cuddy probably sensed what was wrong as well, because she almost immediately stood. "We can do this later, Wilson," she offered politely. "Tomorrow, maybe?"

"Let me check my schedule," Wilson answered, standing as well. "I'll get back to you."

"Sure." Cuddy looked down and smiled sadly. "It'll be alright."

Wilson wasn't sure who she was talking to.

It wasn't until after they left the cafeteria that Wilson was able to break the stony silence that had fallen between him and Foreman. The other man was staring forward with a guilty, haunted look in his eyes, arms crossed protectively.

He said the only thing that came to mind: "You okay?"

* * *

The first time Wilson dosed House was while they were waiting for Lupe's death. His hands shook while he crushed the anti-depressants into a fine powder and poured it into the black coffee, one sugar. He kept on glancing up nervously, afraid that House would appear and catch him.

A few weeks later, he was a master.

The feeling that House would find out never faded away, and Wilson still found himself waiting for the moment when House would barge into his office and catch him crushing the pills, or realize that there was something other than caffeine in his coffee, or realize that he was in a good mood. If his theory worked—and he knew he was right, so it would—House would probably be in a lighter mood in the next week. That was about how long it took for him to start feeling the effects of the pills, so it would probably be about as long for House.

He felt a little crooked, not only by lying to House, but also by lying to Andrea. Maybe it was the pills starting to help him, but he was ashamed of the fact that he was wasting both of their time by feeding her the same crap over and over again about feeling empty and monotone, and dreams about being sewn into oversized clothing. That, and he was betraying here by abusing the pills.

Honestly, sometimes he wished he could just block all of the guilt out, like House did. Then he would probably feel less guilty about lying to his therapist and drugging his best friend.

Oddly, Andrea wasn't as useless as Wilson had given her credit for. Apparently it was possible to go years without being diagnosed with dysthymia because someone with the condition starts to assume that it's normal to always feel slightly depressed. And wasn't that what he had assumed, and what she, in a sense, had rescued him from by diagnosing it in the first place? He hated himself for saying something as pathetic and slightly clichéd as that, but it was true.

Pathetic. But true.

And that's what he was doing with House. While his other experiences with House should have convinced him otherwise, Wilson kind of hoped that he wouldn't get caught. If the pills worked, then he could just tell House what happened. Maybe House would get offended, feel betrayed, but ultimately he could be helped in the same way that Wilson was helped.

But he hadn't expected his plan to become exposed due to the side effects of his _own_ medication. He hadn't expected House to pick up on the fact that anything was wrong with Wilson, not when he had been so blissfully unaware before. One yawn later, and he was high on amphetamines and trying to prevent himself from blurting out anything that could incriminate him in House's eyes. One hazy smile in front of a patient and her parents later, and it was all over.

It wasn't until the next day, when House showed up in his office and said with a betrayed look: "Never do that to me again," that Wilson knew he had made a huge mistake.

* * *

"You were taking a lot of pills for a while there, James," Andrea said at the beginning of one meeting. "Is everything okay now? Anything you need to talk about?"

Wilson shrugged. "Yeah, it's fine," he said noncommittally. "For a while I thought that more pills would help me get better faster, but I see now that it doesn't work that way."

"That ... that's it?"

"Yeah," Wilson answered. "That's it."

Andrea sighed, looking down at the brown leather of her chair. "Are you ever going to come entirely clean with me, James?" she asked, tracing the lines in the fabric with her index finger.

Wilson sat in silence for a moment. "There are certain things that don't need to be said," Wilson finally answered. "I've come to certain realizations without actually talking to anyone about the details."

"Which ... is fine, but then I don't see why you need me, other than for me to just prescribe you the pills you need to keep taking."

"I'm ... making more progress than I was before. It helps me to talk to you, it really does. There's just certain things I can't talk about."

"And those things are the root of the problem." Andrea raised an eyebrow. "House, right?"

"How did you—"

"Our conversations don't go anywhere, James," she interrupted, sighing loudly afterwards. "You think I don't notice, but I do. You bring up the manifestations of your depression, but you try to avoid talking about any of the causes." She ran her fingers through her hair, combing it back slightly. "Sometimes you slip. You tell me what House is doing and how that bothers you. About how he never listens to you. About Detective Tritter. Then you retreat back into your shell, and you give me the same stories about your dreams and how poorly you sleep."

Wilson looked down. He would have been more ashamed if he hadn't been so intentional about it.

"I know you're coming from a doctor's perspective," she continued. "You think that I can just give you pills and that'll take care of everything. That you don't need to talk about it. Yes, the pills will help regulate the physiological aspects of the disease, but it's not the end-all-be-all solution. It's up to you to reevaluate your life and solve, or at least _manage_ the problems that were making you depressed in the first place. And I'm here to help. So please: let me?"

Wilson swallowed and nodded.

"Start wherever you think you need to,"

"There's ... one thing that's bothering me," he slowly started. "It's not at the root of all of my problems or anything, but it's definitely concerning me."

Andrea smiled and leaned forward. "This is going to take time. Don't think that you need to start with the deepest revelation. Do this at your own pace."

Wilson nodded again and stared at a spot just over her shoulder. "The thing about not feeling like I'm ... reacting strongly enough to things that have been happening?"

"Yes, I remember."

"I know that part of it has to do with conditioning, because of the patients I lose ... but at the same time, there are things I should have been upset about, like Julie leaving me, that just left me feeling..."

"Empty?" Andrea offered.

"And then, when Chase came to my office and told me that House got shot, I was concerned, but I never panicked. My heart didn't race or anything. I just sat there, and Chase must have figured that I was in shock because he almost immediately told me that House was in ICU and stable. And when I went to go visit him, I calmly walked over, calmly watched over him, and then calmly left." He looked down, shaking his head. "Your best friend getting shot isn't something to be calm about. _Foreman_ panicked more than I did. Cameron, of course, was miserable and didn't leave his bedside. As if she figured that she would finally gain his love if she waited for him to wake up."

"I know you said that you didn't feel afraid for House," Andrea said, leaning back in her seat and frowning, "but that doesn't mean you didn't feel anything." She ran her hand through her hair again, prompting Wilson to ask himself why he had never noticed that habit before. "James, I think you've spent the past few years confusing emotional control with emotional repression. Instead of expressing your emotions, you inhibit them. Ideally this kind of reaction would be used to restrain them until you can go somewhere private, but you've gotten so good at it that you don't even realize that you have raw emotion." She smiled comfortingly. "You just have to relearn that it's not a crime to emote sometimes, even in private."

"I've never had a problem with happiness before," Wilson mused. "I _know_ why. _Atypical features_. It's just ... I don't know."

"Don't agonize," she warned. "Don't continue to beat yourself up over something that you can't control."

"Is this why I stopped loving my wife?" he asked Andrea. "Why I couldn't get myself to feel anything for Cuddy?"

"No—well... It's hard to say. Honestly, I don't think so. The emotion wouldn't have flat out stopped, it would have felt really distant, as if it's there and you just can't reach it. That's how you were able to tell that you _should_ have felt something."

Wilson laughed ironically. "So I know that it's there if it's faint and I'm questioning it?" When Andrea nodded, he added: "Wow, I just—sometimes I feel that way about House."

* * *

"House is an idiot," Cuddy immediately said, her voice thick.

"This isn't the first time I've heard you say that," Wilson said, moving his phone from one ear to the other and pausing the show that he was watching. "What did he do this time, throw his cane at a patient? Grab someone's ass?" He winced at the thought. "Oh God, did he do both at the same time? To _you_?"

"He electrocuted himself," Cuddy answered, her voice cracking. "Stuck a knife in an electrical outlet. One of ... one of his fellows found him and resuscitated him. Apparently he paged her right before he did it."

Wilson nearly dropped the phone.

"He's okay," Cuddy reassured, probably assuming that he was in shock. "He's stable. ...still asleep, but okay."

"That's ... good."

"Wilson..." Cuddy started, and she sighed. "Can you ... talk to his fellows? Lead them in a differential?"

"Are you _kidding_ me?" he asked, unable to hold back his surprise and annoyance at being asked.

"The patient is still sick. According to one of his fellows, it isn't cancer. They need leadership right now in order to solve the case, and partially because they're all worried about House." She groaned in frustration, and from the other end of the phone he could hear her storm around her office. "How the _hell_ did he get this bright idea, and why did he have to do it in the middle of the case with a new team?"

"Clinic patient, remember?" Wilson answered, trying not to think of his _own_ role in what House had done.

"God, you're right. I'm never letting him into the Clinic _ever again_."

"Don't let him hear you. He might actually take you up on that offer."

Cuddy chuckled. "Good point." Her cheerful tone trailed off and she sighed. "Wilson, I really do need you in there right now."

"Why me?" Wilson asked, hoping that he didn't sound rude. "Why can't _you_ do it?"

"You're the only one House would trust with his team."

"I doubt that. And I don't think I—"

"I know you're probably not in the best state to do this right now, but I need you to." Cuddy sighed. "I'm scared too, believe me, but..."

Of course Wilson was scared. His best friend had just tried to—

...he was _scared_.

* * *

He had spoken to the damn team out of obligation to ... he didn't even know. Cuddy? The patient? House's team? He hadn't done it for House. He was too angry to do anything for House but stare and wait for him to wake up.

The fellows had come up with a couple of ideas, the most promising of which was Brennan's diagnosis of eosinophilic pneumonia, Wilson hoped that they hadn't noticed how nervous he was, not because he needed to prove himself to a bunch of fellowship applicants, but because House was stable and so there was _nothing to worry about_.

Why, then, was he so worried?

It was exactly what Wilson had wanted: something bad happened and he was reacting accordingly. He was scared. He hadn't slept, because he was too scared to be tired. Instead, he had taken a shower before leaving the hotel to make sure that he wouldn't look as frazzled as he felt. He waited up all night for that _idiot_ and was going to yell at him and barrage him with questions as _soon_ as he woke up.

And, God, the other idiot, the one who thought that stabbing electrical outlets was a good idea, had died a little less than an hour ago. Sure, it had something to do with the fact that he had been in an accident days earlier, but...

It could have been House.

When House opened his eyes, Wilson didn't miss a beat: "You're an idiot."

House looked startled for a moment, but then the look on his face changed to recognition and slight annoyance.

"You nearly killed yourself," Wilson continued, stating the obvious because it was the only thing he could remember from the big, long angry speech he had planned out. It was different when House was actually lying there in front of him, awake, conscious pain crossing his features.

"That was the whole idea," House answered, as if that were an acceptable reason. His voice was raspy, just like it had been during the other _two near-death experiences_. What the _hell_ was he thinking?

"You wanted to kill yourself?" Wilson asked incredulously.

"I wanted to _nearly_ kill myself." House had the look he always had when he was about to change the subject. Wilson could only stare, dumbstruck, and blink. "Is he ... better?"

Wilson looked away, annoyed that House had _actually_ changed the subject. "No, but he doesn't have cancer. We think it might be eosinophilic pneumonia." He felt his anger boiling up again, and his hands, which had been resting on the bed tray, tightened. "Maybe you didn't wanna die, but you didn't care if you lived?" he demanded.

"You insisted that I needed to see for myself." Great, just the thing he had been afraid of. House _had_ to turn it around on him, and worst of all, he was _right_. Mercifully, since it gave Wilson a chance to sort his thoughts as he circled to the side of the bed, House changed the subject again. "...was he discharged?"

"No. He's dying. You've already _had_ two near-death experiences." Apparently this was going to be a game: they were going to continuously change the subject on one another until they got through two separate conversations.

"Not that guy, the ... guy in the car accident. The knife. I..." House looked away uncomfortably. "I need to talk to him."

Wilson did a small double-take. "He ... died almost an hour ago. Apparently it's bad to electrocute yourself within days of suffering massive internal injuries." He frowned and stepped closer to House, who shut his eyes in concentration. "Why did you need to talk to _him_? Did you ... see something?"

"Eosinophilic pneumonia," House suddenly said, opening his eyes and once again attempting to change the subject.

"House?" He had to have seen something "What did you see?"

"Nothing." House exhaled deeply. "Whose idea was that?"

"...Brennan. Nothing ... you don't wanna talk about it, or nothing..."

"Which one's Brennan?" House deflected. "Is he the ridiculously _old_ guy?"

"House, you've gotta talk about this," Wilson insisted.

"If it's aggressive enough..." House looked down at his burnt hand and clenched it, wincing slightly in pain. "It might have gotten past the steroids. Start him on cyclophosmide."

"I already did. Just looking at you hurts." Maybe _he_ was changing the subject now, but it was true. He reached for House's chart and started writing. "Gonna order up some extra pain meds."

"...I love you."

Wilson didn't look back up from the chart. He shrugged, rolled his eyes, raised his eyebrow, nodded, and smiled all at the same time, and tried not to ask himself if House was just saying that because of the medication.

* * *

The last thing Wilson trusted House to do, the next evening, was drive home alone. Of course he knew that House wasn't going to try anything stupid like that again, but in an oddly sadistic way, he wanted to poke fun at it. Remind House that he was a complete _idiot_.

"Yeah, great," House muttered, slumping into the passenger seat of Wilson's car.

Despite the slightly unfortunate circumstances, they were hanging for what felt like the first time in a long time. Between the Grace Thing and the Tritter Thing, he and House had grown slightly apart, only briefly finding flashes of their usual friendship under the most unusual circumstances. Like while a man who used to be in a vegetative state killed himself in a hotel in Atlantic City, and they briefly met eyes and knew exactly what the other was thinking.

Even before the almost-suicide attempt, things had slowly been getting back to normal. They were joking and laughing again, playing stupid pranks on one another... It was starting to feel like old times again. In an odd way, Wilson mused as he sank back into his usual spot on the couch, it was like two old friends catching up after not seeing each other for years. They hadn't done this in a while. It was refreshingly new and pleasantly familiar at the same time. Obviously they had both changed since last time, but they were still essentially the same people as before. It was as if everything was back to normal.

"Normal" was a pretty subjective term. Last time he had checked, "normal" hadn't constituted of trying to get high off of death and fuzzy sexual orientation. Apparently this was what "normal" was _now_, though, so they would have to get used to it.

A few hours later, Wilson admitted that he didn't really feel like driving himself back to the hotel.

"What, do you want me to drive you back, or are you waiting for me to offer you my couch?" House asked. "Because I'm doing neither." With that, House stood and walked towards his room.

Wilson would have been annoyed if House hadn't nearly immediately walked back in with a pillow and blanket, throwing both over the back of the sofa with a grunt and a soft, "'Night."

Next he was staring up at the ceiling of House's living room, thinking everything from "What should I make for breakfast tomorrow morning?" to "I promised Susan I'd show her that article on Big Bang Theory during our next consult." He told himself he would avoid thinking about House, and what the _hell_ was wrong with House, and why House hadn't paged _him_ instead of that catty little fellowship candidate of his, and what House meant earlier, and whether or not he should ever tell House that he was—well, he didn't know anything for sure. Best not make generalizations where they could be avoided.

He usually didn't like falling asleep, but between the lack of sleep from the previous night and the drumming of questions in his mind, Wilson welcomed sleep more warmly than he ever had before.

* * *

This time, Wilson was in that annoying pink sweater that his mother had bought him for one of his birthdays. She never really had good fashion sense, something that always amused the men in the family despite the fact that they, too, were slightly style-impaired. Oddly, she had always laughed when she suggested he wear that sweater to school, which lead him to believe that she _knew_ just how hideous the sweater was, and was making fun of him right back.

When he looked up, his mother, who this time had curly blonde hair and green eyes, and looked nothing like his mother, was in her usual place, sewing the top of the sweater shut with hot pink thread. As usual, his dream wasn't telling him how he got there in the first place; he just had to accept the fact that he was stuck.

"What are you doing in here?" House suddenly asked, and Wilson jumped about five feet back. "You should get out of here, Wilson," he continued, as if the younger man hadn't reacted at all.

"Why are you—" Wilson started, then stopped himself. He was always alone in the sweater, so why was anyone with him? If House appeared it all, it was through the material of the shirt that was trapping him, or in the hands that were sewing it shut. Otherwise, it was always just Wilson and his Mother. Nobody else.

"If you're going to be an idiot, then I guess I'm going to get us _both_ out," House finally said, reaching out for Wilson. "We're climbing up. Shouldn't get separated. Grab my hand."

"House—"

"We don't have much time, _Wilson_, before your mom sews up the top of the sweater. Do you want to get trapped again?"

"But, House..." Wilson wasn't interrupted this time, instead trailing off because he forgot what he was going to say. He frowned, looking down, wishing for the words that were apparently _quite important_ to come back to him so he could warn House of the danger to come. There was always a sense of danger, in this dream, which is why he never ... _something_. He never did _something_ in the dream because he knew that it would hurt him, but he couldn't remember _what_.

"Fine. Then I'll leave. I may or may not come back for you. By then, of course, your mom might have finished it, so sorry if you have to wait in the dark if and until I can get you out." House was being purposely vague, but he said it with so much intention that Wilson almost didn't care. He quickly limped towards the side of the sweater, and suddenly Wilson remembered _exactly_ what was wrong.

"House, wait—"

There was a bright blue flash, and House was shot away from the side of the sweater a lot faster than he had gotten there. He landed on the floor of the sweater with a thud, ribbons of lightning still arcing up from his body. Wilson ran forward, practically falling to his knees as soon as he reached House. He cradled the older man, grasping the hand that was burnt from making contact with the sweater.

Everything grew dimmer as his "mother" made the last few stitches at the neck hole of the sweater. Wilson grasped House tighter, comforting the unconscious man as the familiar darkness overtook them both, engulfing them in heat and closeness and captivity.

At some point House must have woken up because he suddenly cleared his throat, catching Wilson's attention. "Wilson," he started before erupting into a painful coughing fit that made Wilson wince in sympathetic pain.

"I—"

Wilson felt his heart practically explode from his chest and his eyes shot open, uncovering the almost-darkness of House's living room instead of the full darkness of the interior of the sweater. He panted, shaking his head to erase the images from his dream as he brought his knees forward, pulling himself into a sturdier seated position.

That was... _Shit_...

Wilson let out a choked sob and leaned forward, his head resting against his knees as tears fell from his face at a slow, deliberate pace. It felt odd, finally crying, and he almost laughed at the absurdity of crying over the nightmare, no matter how disturbingly similar it had been to real life. He was glad, at any rate, that the dream had finally provoked the emotional response he desired, but now that the sadness had returned to him he had forgotten how to fight it off.

He had probably been sitting dumbly in the darkness for a few minutes at _least_ before the tears stopped flowing, then another couple of minutes to slow his heart. By the time he had come off of the fear from the nightmare, Wilson felt oddly blue, unable to hide his sadness behind fear, or frustration, or anger, or anything else.

"You gonna calm down or what?" he heard House ask. Wilson lifted his head towards the hall where House was leaning against a wall.

"House–" Wilson started, his voice raspy from sleep.

"I forgot how noisy you were," House continued, turning around and heading back into his room. "I'm never letting you stay over again."

He wasn't sure what possessed him to do it, but Wilson quickly slipped out from under his blanket and trailed after House, following the older man into the bedroom. He hung back slightly, watching House's back settle into place in bed, before cautiously and quietly entering the room as well. The mattress dipped under his weight as he climbed into bed, sliding in next to House.

"What the hell?" House asked, although he didn't really sound surprised. With a slight wince he turned over to face Wilson. Never mind the fact that the younger man hadn't moved his arms. "Wilson, what—"

"Shut up," Wilson said, pulling House closer. He buried his face in the crook of House's neck. "Please."

"I don't—" House started before Wilson once again cut him off.

"Please don't talk, House. For God's sake, just don't talk for once."

House stayed immobile for a moment, then asked: "Why?"

"Because," Wilson moved his head from House's neck, instead choosing to press his forehead against House's. Their lips might have brushed, but neither acknowledged it. "Because," he started again, and closed his eyes because he couldn't think of how to finish the sentence.

"Because you're scared?" House gingerly rested his right arm over Wilson's side, his hand brushing against Wilson's spine as it fell. "I'm not good at this comfort thing," he added uncertainly.

"I just need to make sure you're here," Wilson explained.

"I'm pretty sure I always was."

"Shut up," he repeated, this time more firmly. He pressed himself closer to House, feeling the warmth of the other man's body.

"You've been crying." House would have made fun of himself for pointing out the obvious, but he seemed unable to process any thoughts of his own. Wilson hoped this wasn't a _bad_ thing.

"Yeah." Wilson opened his eyes and stared directly into House's. "Haven't done it in a while." After a moment he looked down, unused to the sight of House's face so close to his. It felt wrong and awkward, but so bizarrely comforting that he opted not to move.

"Are..." House started, then paused, exhaling lightly. "Do I get to know _why_ you freaked out and jumped into bed with me, or do I just have to roll with it?"

"A little of both," Wilson joked. He pressed his lips tightly together. "I just had a nightmare, that's all."

"A little old for this, aren't you?"

"It's not like that," Wilson protested. "It was about you." He swallowed, looking back at House. "About last night. You. The knife."

"Christ," House breathed. Wilson wasn't sure exactly what it was supposed to mean, but he hoped it was positive. "Is this a ... regular thing, or something? Or was it the familiar lumps of my couch that stirred up so many emotions?"

Wilson smirked. "A bit of both, I think. I think about it sometimes, but..." He trailed off. "The reaction is kind of long overdue."

"Oh."

Neither spoke for a while, and Wilson slowly felt himself relax as his eyes drooped shut. House's breathing was slow and even, less tired than it was pensive. It could have been worse: he could have been pushing Wilson away. There was something strangely inverted about the situation, where the friend was being comforted by the victim instead of the other way around. Maybe House felt as though he were being comforted as well?

The last thing he wanted to do was fall asleep there, but he couldn't get himself to move. Not when he felt so comfortable and House was ... well. House was there, and that was a unique enough experience to make him want to stay, especially since it probably wouldn't be repeated. It was as if he was allowing it, this time, and there was no telling what this meant in context of everything else. With House, everything was always unpredictable.

Finally, House spoke again: "So ... why did you follow me back here?"

"I wanted to make sure you were here," Wilson answered without thinking.

"You said that already."

He smiled and sighed contentedly. "Does it matter?"

After a pause, House chuckled lightly. "No. I guess it doesn't."

* * *

"I'm really sorry," Wilson apologized again. He hadn't realized that he had fallen asleep in House's bed, more importantly in House's _arms_, until he woke up a few hours later. Oddly, House hadn't tried to wake him or move him, but instead had kept an arm thrown possessively over Wilson's torso before falling asleep as well. He had only woken up when Wilson started to shift in order to get out of the bed.

"No, it's okay," House shrugged. "It was ... good."

His House-to-English dictionary listed about ten different definitions of the word "good," most of which tended to signal the presence of some kind of subtext or underlying worry. Wilson took the merciful route this time and opted not to ask House to elaborate.

"I should probably go back to the couch," Wilson said, forcing his limbs from their comfortable position draped around House's. "Work tomorrow."

"You can stay if you'd like," House offered flippantly, but Wilson shook his head and sat up.

"No, I should probably—"

"Let me phrase this differently," House interrupted, putting his hand over Wilson's and trapping it in place as he brought himself to a seated position as well. He leaned forward and captured Wilson's lips between his own, breathing his next words against Wilson's lips. "_Stay_."

Wilson might have been more surprised under different circumstances. As it were, he wasn't about to complain when this is what he wanted, nor was he about to try to dissect House's motives when he could just as easily open his mouth and let things run their course.

Sighing into the kiss, Wilson leaned forward, using his free hand to cup the back of House's head. He hesitated between pulling House on top of him or pushing House against the headboard—noses bumped slightly, awkwardly comforting in a situation that was so unfamiliar that it didn't even _matter_. Wilson was no ladies' man, despite his apparent reputation, but he was no stuttering virgin either. Why, then, was he so afraid of kissing House with his whole body, particularly when they had fallen asleep tangled together only hours earlier? There was energy hiding behind their slow rhythm of lips locking and unlocking, but it refused to surface out of fear that anything more than borderline _chaste_ kissing and minimal contact could ruin the delicate balance of whatever the hell they had before.

He opened his eyes slightly to find House peering back at him curiously. Wilson asked himself whether or not House's eyes had been open the other time, startled despite having made the first move. Wilson, after all, had been gingerly controlling the situation, and so neither had taken the initiative to deepen, explore, or do anything that they would have done under more normal circumstances.

"Normal" was still a fairly subjective term.

"When did things change?" Wilson suddenly asked, pulling away.

House looked at Wilson with a confused but nonetheless amused expression. "Does it ... really matter?" he asked, leaning back slightly.

"I ... I'm just wondering because ... well, we were kind of..." Wilson trailed off, not even sure what he had wanted to say in the first place.

Maybe House understood what Wilson had meant, or maybe he didn't care and was just trying to distract them both. Instead of answering, he inched back towards Wilson, his hand reaching around to trace lazy circles up and down Wilson spine through the shirt. House was _right_, whatever he was trying to say.

Wilson smiled and leaned back in, chaste quickly turning into passionate as they grabbed at each other, attempting what they had been too afraid to try the first time. His hands ran up and down House's torso, tracing each rib with as much dexterity as his trembling fingers could manage, as House weaved through now-messy hair, grabbing clumps as they closed the remaining space between them, falling deeper into the kiss.

They clung to each other, trapped in the warm darkness, sewn into shared silence.

"You okay now?" House asked when they finally stopped for air. Behind him, the sun was beginning to tint the sky, and Wilson wondered how long they had actually been doing this.

"Yeah," Wilson answered breathlessly, smiling at House's impassive concern. "Turns out you're good for something other than just being a pest."

"Oh, thanks, I appreciate it." House rolled his eyes, but almost immediately glanced back at Wilson with curiosity. "Sure you don't want to talk about it?"

"So now that you know that I can hide things from you, you care?"

"Maybe. You gonna answer that question? You aren't as good at deflecting as I am."

"I'll talk," Wilson said coyly. "But only when you tell me what you saw when you died."

House smirked, which Wilson basically interpreted as "Hell no, I'm not going to talk, but I'll find a way to make you talk anyway." Wilson countered with his "I'd like to see you try" stare, which House rebutted with his "You'll cave eventually" look.

"Maybe," Wilson's next smile said, "but I'm taking you with me."


End file.
